Wingul's Compendium of Things That Shouldn't Be Hard But Are
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: From walking to the baths from his room to apologizing, nothing seems to be going right for Wingul this evening, and it's all Presa's fault. M for a certain former Rat, as well as mentioned dark impulses… but really, could be T if not for the tenth section. Gets steadily less humorous and more romantic as the story progresses. I do not own Tales of Xillia!


_This is sort of a sequel to "Challenge Accepted", since it references a couple things that happened in the end of that one, but it's not necessary to read it first._

_Also, yes, you should take the title literally, especially towards the end. There was seriously no way I could shoehorn this into the T category with a clear conscience. I'm sorry._

* * *

_**Entry One: **__Walking to the baths from his room._

It was just around the corner. True, Wingul had already started disrobing before he realized he wanted a nice soak, but no one would notice if he was quick about it. It wasn't as though having no shirt and no shoes was terribly scandalous anyway. Mostly, it was just that… well, as a former Long Dau prince, any state of undress was considered less than professional.

Whatever. No one would see him. He stole out of his room, shutting the door softly behind him, and strode around the corner before he could convince himself not to. However, he was almost immediately confronted with a certain former Rat exiting the baths.

Presa _was_ fully dressed, thank the spirits—if you could consider her latest outfit as such. Wingul halted mid-step, frowning spasmodically; he'd seen her wearing it before, but he'd been in a bit of a hurry to make sure Agria wasn't about to burn down the royal garden (again).

It was skintight, that was for sure—what little of 'it' there was. Dark blue fabric kept in place by crossed laces. Was that… leather? Wingul narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the material, focusing all his energy on that trivial detail. Maybe he'd be able to forget the flawless skin that lay beneath it if he just—

"…What are you staring at?" Presa's voice, somewhat annoyed, sounded faraway, and Wingul realized abruptly that this was probably not the best way to appear innocent. He swallowed and moved his eyes up to hers with an effort, resolving on the most logical course of action.

* * *

_**Entry Two: **__Telling the truth._

Wingul cleared his throat; his mouth had gone dry, and words were difficult to come by. How would he be able to comment without making it seem like he was checking her out? (Because the _last _thing he wanted to do was look at Presa of the Hundred spells like that.)

"Your outfit is… beginning to unnerve me." This did not have the desired effect. Presa merely smirked; Wingul shifted his weight uncomfortably, his eyes sliding to the door behind her. He just wanted a bath. He didn't want to have to deal with the confusing torrent of energy crackling between himself and Presa.

"Want me to take it off?" she murmured, fiddling coyly with one of her ribbons, and Wingul crossed his arms, giving her as dirty a look as he could as he kept his eyes on hers. He was _not _going to let her walk all over him, no matter how distracting the motion of her fingers was.

When Wingul continued to say nothing, Presa merely curled her hair around her finger. "Whatever," she sighed. "You're no fun. Anyway, His Highness said I could wear what I want, and this is a tactical advantage in battle, if you ask me. Most of my enemies won't know which way to look."

"Neither will your allies," responded Wingul carefully. As grudging as he was to admit it, Presa knew exactly how to scramble a man's senses. Only his lingering distrust of her kept him safe, and even then, he was still capable of being caught off-guard.

"Why, Wingul," purred Presa, and he grit his teeth. He'd never resented anyone so much as _her_. Why wouldn't she just step aside instead of tormenting him? And why was she so intent on making him uncomfortable to begin with? "What are you implying?"

Wingul heaved a deep sigh, momentarily burying his face in his hand. "I'm not implying anything," he asserted as patiently as possible. "I'm _saying _that by your logic, this is as much a disadvantage as it is an advantage."

Presa raised an eyebrow, adjusting her glasses. "Well, His Highness hardly ever looks at me anymore, and Jiao doesn't seem to have any problems with my attire," she said thoughtfully, "so I'd say you speak for yourself." Wingul barely had time to be angry before she added, giving a wry smirk, "Is _that _why you've been so clumsy lately?"

* * *

_**Entry Three: **__Coming back from an insult._

Wingul glared into her amused eyes, resenting her height. With those ridiculous shoes, she was only a few inches shorter than him. This wasn't fair.

"I have _not _been clumsy!" he snapped, losing patience. Why was she still in the way? And why was he bothering to have this argument with her, anyway? It wasn't like either of them could resolve it without resorting to violence.

"Fine, fine," shrugged Presa, eyeing his clenched fists and leaning against the doorway infuriatingly. Just enough of her was blocking the door that he'd have to touch her if he walked in, and by no means was that an appealing thought. (_Really_, it wasn't.) "No need for hostility."

Oh, that was _it_. "Get dressed," snarled Wingul, taking a few menacing steps forward. They hadn't really spoken this much alone since her arrival in Kanbalar, and as he recalled, that had gone about as well.

"Put a shirt on," retorted Presa, maddeningly unruffled, and crossed her arms; her outfit gapped slightly, and Wingul fidgeted. He was not going to let someone like _her_ get the better of him.

"I'm going to take a bath!" shot back Wingul, his eyes fixed determinedly on hers. "What's _your _excuse?"

Presa pursed her lips. "I'm not going to waste my breath repeating an explanation you apparently didn't like," she decided, and Wingul made a derisive noise under his breath, pushing her aside and storming into the bath. "Sorry," shrugged Presa, sounding altogether too unconcerned for his tastes.

Wingul glowered back at her. "Just put some _proper clothes _on." Not once had he ever seen her in anything that wasn't either ridiculously form-fitting or showed an absurd amount of skin; Presa gave an exaggerated curtsy and sashayed away.

As she rounded the corner, he wondered if she knew the definition of 'proper' clothes—but merely shut the door, resolving to think of it no more. That part wasn't his problem.

* * *

_**Entry Four: **__Saying exactly what he means._

Half an hour later, Wingul had soaked away his problems—but most of them came back again as soon as he walked out the door.

Presa was leaning against the wall again—wearing _his cape_ as a lopsided skirt, fastened at her right thigh, draping diagonally to her left. His eyes moved up past the fur at her waist to discover that she had apparently decided his coat would suffice for a shirt; her midriff was exposed, and such was the cut of the jacket that almost everything else was, too. _Almost._

Wingul noticed his mouth was open, but couldn't imagine when he had tried to say something, and closed it hastily. Presa only smirked, adjusting her glasses as he strode forward, shock giving way to fury. "I—" he spat, but cut himself off, unable to phrase the exact nature of his complaint.

"Honestly," she sighed, apparently understanding his meaning regardless, "these clothes are literally yours. Don't you consider them proper?"

"Not the way you're wearing them!" returned Wingul, in a slightly constricted voice, before clearing his throat in an effort to sound even a little bit more professional.

"Oh, come on," laughed Presa. "Your shirt was too tight in the chest, so of course I'm not going to wear it! See, this covers me up decently," she added, tracing the high hem of his coat, and he swallowed before bringing his eyes back up to her insufferable face.

"You think _that's _my problem?" he hissed, shifting his weight to keep his mind off her waist.

"Well, if you think your clothes are defective, then I think I'll just keep them," she shrugged, giving a catlike smile. "Thanks for the tip. Proper clothes are so much more comfortable than I thought."

"Then what am _I _going to wear?" growled Wingul, taking one more step forward to look down at her in a way he hoped was intimidating. He was certainly angry enough, anyway.

"Well," whispered Presa confidentially, and he leaned closer resentfully to hear, "you wouldn't fit in _my _outfit, and I doubt you'd want to—unless you like that sort of thing, and I'm not judging."

He barely resisted the urge to smile as she flinched away from the hand he rose, though she recovered quickly. "I _said _I'm not judging," she muttered to herself, not meeting Wingul's eyes, and he lowered his hand again, slowly.

Taking a deep breath, Wingul crossed his arms, trying to deal with their disagreement in a calm and rational manner. It was funny; only Presa really made him want to kill her during their arguments. He was usually able to settle things peacefully with everyone else. "You can't just… steal my clothes and—" he began, but the culprit interrupted.

"You _ordered_ me to change into proper clothes!" flared up Presa, shifting her weight in an extremely distracting way. "So I changed into yours. I assumed you'd think they were proper, since you wear them all the time. What did I do wrong?"

"And here's another order," snapped Wingul, and her eyes widened as he leaned forward, putting as much venom into his gaze as he possibly could. "Take. My. Clothes. Off. Right. Now."

"We're in the hallway, you know," said Presa, in a way that sounded almost like a plea. Oh, he could get used to that tone in her voice… But there was an undercurrent there he didn't like so much. Mischief?

"I don't care." Wingul turned his back, for the sake of at least a little bit of decency. He _had _just ordered to give him back his clothes without any privacy; he wasn't so inconsiderate as to stand there and watch.

"Suit yourself," she sighed, deliberately sensual as usual, but he heard no rustle of clothing. "I had no idea public indecency was your kind of thing," she added softly, and he felt her breath on the back of his neck.

A shudder ran through his body, though whether from disgust or anticipation he didn't know—but before he could whirl around and confront her about whatever scheme was up _his _sleeve, her hands slid around his torso… and into his waistband.

* * *

_**Entry Five: **__Phrasing his commands effectively._

Wingul froze for a moment, heartbeat as rapid and breathing as ragged as if he had been running, before finally grasping her wrists with such intensity that he could hear her half-afraid inhalation.

"What are you _doing_!" he hissed, releasing one of her arms abruptly and yanking the other one around so that she stumbled and fell to her knees before him. Blind anger was rare for him; he always prided himself on his presence of mind—but Presa was an exception to every rule.

There was a pause while they both caught their breath—but it was broken by the sound of Presa's soft laughter. "You said to take your clothes off," she giggled hoarsely, "so I was following your instructions and taking your clothes off."

Wingul blinked. Had he really said it like that? "You really have to be careful with the way you give your orders," she added, paraphrasing his thoughts, and he growled in the back of his throat, opening his mouth to give her a talking-to.

He had no time to wonder why Presa seemed so alarmed, or why she was looking around, before she leapt to her feet and charged him, pressing her hand against her mouth and slamming him into the wall next to a column.

* * *

_**Entry Six: **__Breathing._

Even when Wingul's head recovered from smashing into the wall, everything still seemed to spin. One by one, he noticed things he wished he could forget, and what disquieted him most was that anger was _not _one of the emotions that made his heart pound ever faster.

First of all, he noted that she had not removed the hand clamped over his mouth. That wouldn't have mattered so much if he had been given a chance to close it before she covered it with those long and supple fingers. He debated biting her to get her to let go, but another realization cut the impulse short.

Her head rested on his shoulder, barely touching his cheek as she peered around the column behind which they hid. From this angle, he realized that she had removed her high heels; he could have leaned forward and rested his chin in her hair if he wanted. Her other hand, meanwhile, pinned one of his wrists to the wall, about the level of his ear.

Wingul realized with a jolt that could feel every one of Presa's breaths, as well as the flutter of her heart. Her chest was pressed against his; he never thought that the fabric of his own coat could possibly be so maddening as it stirred against his chest. But that was nothing compared to the sensation he noticed next: their bared midriffs were touching.

No—not merely touching, but _pressed together_. Nothing whatsoever separated them; he could feel her muscles tense momentarily against his before relaxing again, and the rippling motion awakened some long-buried instinct he'd ignored till now. His breath caught in his throat, his mind gradually letting go.

Pressure. Her _thigh_. Presa's leg was arranged carefully between both of his, barely brushing his groin… as though she was doing it on purpose. Wingul made a valiant effort to hate the feeling slowly spreading through him, but found that he was remarkably unattached to all his previous objections. So what if Long Dau tradition said he would have to marry her? She hadn't married all the men _she _had bedded.

Presa peeled herself away from him suddenly; he rubbed his mouth, sensation returning to his forgotten brain. He found himself momentarily grateful for her intervention as he heard a door open and shut some distance down the hallway; the last thing he wanted was for anyone _else _to see him like this.

His thoughts once again shut down, however, as Presa kept her grasp on his wrist and led him swiftly to his own bedroom, closing the door behind them.

* * *

_**Entry Seven: **__Taking orders._

"That was close," said Presa, altogether too matter-of-factly, as she crossed her arms and leaned against the door casually. Wingul merely stared at her; didn't she know what she had done? "But we should be all right now."

"Give my clothes back and get out,_ now_," said Wingul, wincing as his voice cracked from the stress of maintaining control. This was his last chance to save himself; he would still be able to (mostly) forget tonight's events… if and only if they proceeded no further.

"Well, aren't you an impatient one?" asked Presa, smiling in the dim light. "But there's just one little problem. I'm not going back out there stark naked, no matter _what _you order me to do."

Wingul shook his head disbelievingly. How could someone who wore almost nothing as a matter of course be so emphatic about refusing to walk naked through the hall for about twenty feet?

There was clearly only one solution. "I'll bring you a change of clothes from your room," he found himself saying, surprising himself with his own reluctance—but evidently not surprising Presa.

"Oh?" she asked, tilting her head with an amused smile playing on her lips. "If you insist. It'll be interesting to see which outfit you pick for me to wear." She drew her key out of _his_ pocket (Wingul remembered distantly the day he gave it to her) and tossed it to him casually.

"I didn't mean I would—" began Wingul desperately, catching the key helplessly, but she bowed him out of his door and he had no choice but to follow her instructions.

* * *

_**Entry Eight: **__Coming out of the closet._

Her room was just as he imagined it, _not _that he spent a great deal of time thinking about such things. Most of its space was taken up with a king-size bed (complete with luxurious chiffon canopy); the rest of it was devoted to her appearance, as she had also been given a wardrobe, a dresser, a vanity, _and _a walk-in closet. He had no doubt they were all full, but decided his best prospects lay in the closet.

Predictably, finding something up to Wingul's standards of decency was no easy feat, and for several minutes, he ended up simply looking around at the vast number of outfits at her disposal. Half of them were so sheer he wondered at their point; most of the other half showed so much skin they should barely qualify as clothing at all.

Never had he imagined for a moment that he would _ever _consider her everyday wear 'proper' compared to anything, but quickly realized as he stood and stared that she could easily have worn something even more suggestive than her blue laced outfit. From now on, it would have the Wingul stamp of approval, not that he'd ever openly admit it.

The wardrobe. He'd try the wardrobe…

…No, he wouldn't. He hadn't seen everything yet. To imagine Presa wearing any of these outfits was simultaneously enticing and disgusting; he ran his hands along the racks of clothing, pausing here and there to rub some smooth material or other between his fingers absentmindedly.

"Silk satin," he muttered, arriving at a robe that—lo and behold—looked like it might actually cover her. Seizing it, and taking one final glance around the closet full of so many things he had forbidden himself from thinking of, he practically flew back to his room.

The last thing he needed was someone seeing him run out of Presa's room with a robe like that; if they did, the rumors would never stop. Fumbling with the key in his hastiness, he finally wrenched the door open and closed it behind him, leaning against it with a sigh a moment later—and suddenly noticed that his clothes were strewn over the floor.

* * *

_**Entry Nine: **__Opening his hand._

Wingul's eyes slowly followed the telltale trail of black to his bed, where (with an odd mixture of dread and anticipation) he predictably found Presa, no glasses on her face, sitting with the blankets only around her waist—but hugging her knees against her chest as though mocking him.

He wasn't about to wait for her to make some remark on the amount of time he'd taken. Wingul held up the robe, blocking his own view, and turned around wordlessly, extending his arm to the fullest behind him. At this point, it was all he could do to maintain his increasingly more fragile self-control, and he did _not _want her to test its strength.

"One of my personal favorites," said Presa, and though he could not see her, there was a smile curling around her voice. His heart skipped a frustrating beat as he heard her slip out of his bed, and the thought crossed his mind that _he was going to sleep in that bed tonight_—

He didn't notice his fist was clenched until her fingers pried at his in an attempt to loosen his grip, and he dropped the robe out of surprise; she caught it, laughing softly, and he leaned his head on his arm against the door frustratedly. She was what the Long Dau would call a scarlet woman, and here he was playing right into her hands.

"You can turn around now," she said, after a silent pause, and Wingul made the mistake of trusting her and turning his head.

* * *

_**Entry Ten: **__Apologizing._

"Haven't you ever seen a naked woman before?" asked Presa, teasingly, a hand on her bare hip, but Wingul hardly comprehended the words. Art wasn't always puritan, so of course he'd seen naked females before—but no painting could compare to the sight of a living, breathing woman, standing tall before him without the slightest effort to cover herself.

(It was also a little bit different because Presa, unlike most women in art, possessed a tail.)

"What do you want," breathed Wingul, unable to look at her face. One would assume, since she bared so much of her body daily, that it would have desensitized him to complete clotheslessness… but apparently, that was not the case. It was all he could do to utter the phrase whose answer he no longer cared for.

Presa smiled, taking a couple steps forward, and he backed into the wall somewhat warily as she approached. It had been difficult enough to deal with close proximity last time, and then, she had still been wearing something. "An apology," she purred, halting directly before him, leaning in—but did not touch him.

"An apology," repeated Wingul in a strangled exhalation, not fully understanding the word, and reached towards her cheek tentatively. She half-closed her eyes at his light touch like a contented cat, but did not reciprocate: she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Yes," she murmured, as his fingers skimmed her cheek and neck briefly before grazing the curve of her shoulder. "Acknowledge that I am as much a member of the Chimeriad as you are," she whispered, gazing into his eyes. "Say you're sorry for hitting me all those months ago."

Wingul let out his breath in a long sigh, withdrawing his hand reluctantly. How dare she use something as low as _this_ as a bargaining chip! A little of his previous rage seeped back into his heart, and he took advantage of the courage it afforded to bare his teeth.

"Or what?" he challenged, leaning against the door with the merest implication of a threat. By no means was such a bestial sin appealing to him with regard to any ordinary girl—but the idea of completely conquering a girl like _Presa_, of vanquishing _her_ so utterly—

A single corner of Presa's mouth tugged up. "You think you can beat me in a fight without your sword by your side?" she laughed, more a breath than anything. "I could blast my way through that door if I wanted and run crying to His Highness, and _you_ might have to get off your high horse—if you were lucky enough to keep your head."

Wingul took a cautious step around her, away from the door, declawing himself unwillingly. He couldn't help but see the truth in her words; guilt for the violence of his impulse welled up in the wound to his pride. "I don't _have_ a high horse," he growled, snatching back his curious hand.

"Perhaps you're right," replied Presa, raising a teasing eyebrow and crossing her arms once more, eyes on the hand he had retracted. "You don't strike me as much of a rider."

Wingul chose to ignore this, knowing that any reply he gave would give her a further advantage. "And if I were… to refuse… your conditions?" he asked, but the phrase emerged a halting exhalation, and Presa's hoarse giggle told him that she knew he would not.

"I would take my robe and leave," she murmured, and she finally reached her own hand towards his face, her fingernails skimming the outline of his jaw. "But—" She took a single step towards him and leaned forward slowly, curving her lips up to whisper. "I don't think either of us wants that."

"Either of us?" Wingul's voice had become husky. Presa merely laughed in response, retracting her hand and swaying as though to step back again—but Wingul caught it again before she could drop it to her side, and pressed it against his chest.

"Apologize first," she warned, offering a slight, soft smile… but there was a distinctly dangerous edge to her expression. The sharpness of her eyes was echoed in the perfect fingernails under his hand, digging slowly but surely into his chest—more and more painful as the seconds ticked by.

"I'm _sorry_," hissed Wingul, releasing her fingers and observing the marks on his breast. Presa smiled, her hand relaxing and falling—but it caught itself on his waistband (he tensed).

"And what are you sorry for?" she asked, barely audible, her hands slipping around his waist to his lower back and below, fingernails continuing their urgent pressure as they went.

He grimaced, unable—or perhaps simply unwilling—to extricate himself from her thorny embrace. They were so _close_. "Say it," she commanded, smiling at his expression, and his mind surfaced abruptly for air, enough to remind him not to let her walk all over him like she did with so many others.

"No," asserted Wingul, though his voice was a groan, and her nails dug into him sharply: he gave a guttural yelp, and she grinned, trailing her fingernails up to the back of his neck.

"Tell me," she sighed, bringing his head down so that he could taste her sweet breath—but their lips did not meet. He leaned in, frustratedly, but she held a hand between their mouths, smiling, before grasping his chin in a way that echoed what he had done to her mockingly so long ago, on the night of their first meeting.

One cruel fingernail toyed with the edge of his mouth, and Wingul shook his head to rid himself of it, but Presa merely smiled distantly, unfazed: she would stop at nothing but an apology.

For being highborn. For a blow he'd struck on the night when they were first acquainted. For discriminating against someone whom he rightfully did not trust. An ally of several months whom he _still _did not fully trust.

"Never," growled Wingul, glaring. "I have done nothing wro—"

The last word was cut off by a sudden, backhanded slap, and he clutched his cheek, recoiling, knowing it stung so much only because she had hit him in the same way he had once struck her. _Once. _Did one hit, justified by the insult she paid him first—did _one _hit warrant so many minutes of torture, so many mind games?

This would not do.

As soon as Wingul had straightened up again, his body's response—and what little remained of his conscious mind agreed wholeheartedly—was to seize her by the shoulders and slam her against the wall. Hearing the breath rush out of her body, and seeing the glint of fear in her eyes, afforded him a satisfaction the nature of which he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He leaned closer to her, slowly. "I will not tell you lies," he breathed in her ear, and relished the shiver he could feel running through her body. "I will not give you false apologies. I regret _nothing_ I have said or done to you. I would do it all again."

Wingul withdrew his head and released her shoulders, letting his eyes wander as they would, knowing she would be well within her rights to rip it all away from him and leave him alone, like he deserved—to seize her robe and stalk off, just like she had said she would. But she made no move.

Perhaps he could apologize another way…

"An honest man," sighed Presa eventually, sultrily, tapping his chin lightly to bring his eyes back up to meet hers. "And I thought I had seen everything." She rested all her weight on one hip, looking unabashedly into his face, and Wingul grit his teeth.

"Presa," was all he could say, helplessly, and to his own ears his tone sounded foreign, too desperate, too pleading to be his own—but she brought his mouth down to meet hers, closing her eyes, and his voice vanished altogether.

When their positions had been reversed, when _he _had been the one pressed against the wall, everything had stood out so clearly, each sense distinct from the others—but now, it was all a blur, each sensation blending together.

The hand she had held over his mouth loosened his pants; her hair was tangled in his fingers as she trailed her mouth softly to just below his jaw. Their breaths and heartbeats were one, alternating shallow and deep, rapid and slow. Bare bodies pressed together, not even a coat separating them this time—but he wanted to be closer still.

He breathed an incoherent half-thought in her ear, not conscious enough to know if it was Long Dau or her tongue, and not caring. She understood his tone, and smiled into his neck; they moved away from the wall, somewhere between wrestling and dancing.

"I'll go easy on you," she assured him with a wry smile, which disappeared in favor of surprise as soon as he pushed her onto his bed none too gently, pinning her wrists as he arched over her—making a point of observing all the finery beneath him that would soon be his.

Presa's smile returned, and she squirmed beneath him, moving her legs apart, tail swishing enticingly. "Aren't you ambitious," she purred, and the hiss her breath made at the end of the last word was lengthened as Wingul finally gave her his wordless apology.


End file.
